Revving Up The Treadmill Of Medical Care
I'm one who has enjoyed good health more through inheritance than by choice. So when I began to experience lightheadedness about three weeks ago, I attributed it to my typical springtime allergic stuffiness.
But a noticeable shortness of breath and uncharacteristic tiredness elevated my level of concern from yellow to orange. Deciding to see a physician only minutes from home for convenience' sake, getting in required a week's wait. In the interim, I began rounding up medical records.
When exiting one medical office with a sheaf of papers, I opened the door for a woman in her 80s struggling with her walker. My three months on crutches had imparted only a droplet of understanding of her daily battles to accomplish what once was simple. Seemingly capricious, Time, who eventually healed me, has left her fighting the grooves in the sidewalk that trap her walker's wheels.
(Monday morning early) My mind wanders through conditions of varying severity. In considering the possibilities, my prominent thought is of my family. What "loose ends" will cause trouble for them should I find myself incapacitated--or worse?
For the first time I can identify with those who have traveled this road before. I would have guessed that their initial concern might have been their own frailty and ultimate mortality. But I see error in that presumption.
(Monday morning) I call to confirm my appointment. The doctor is on vacation, I'm told, and they have no record of any appointment at all. They have an opening in three weeks; would I like it? No thanks, I say, and call another doctor, expecting at least a week's delay.
Miraculously, he has an opening this afternoon. I eagerly accept. So I spend the remainder of the morning trying to concentrate despite subtle apprehensions about what the afternoon might hold.
(Monday afternoon) I survey the clinic's waiting room and note numerous indicators of infirmity: wheelchairs, crutches, oxygen bottles, coughs and wheezes. The superfluous TV splutters news which nobody watches, each person lost in thought, wondering, perhaps as I do, what happens next.
As has often been the case, my symptoms mysteriously disappear when the doctor enters the examination room. He orders tests. EKG and X-rays return normal. Come back in a couple of weeks, he says, after more tests at the hospital.
(Tuesday morning) Symptoms, completely absent yesterday, have returned--but only slightly.
So now I find myself revving up the slow treadmill of medical care, realizing that the human condition is eventually terminal. But in the meantime, should God grant me more days, I silently resolve to be a better steward of the physical machine of which I am but a temporary custodian. Water, exercise, vitamins, fresh fruits and vegetables assume new significance.
And I more easily empathize with--and pray for--those who have been unwillingly set upon the same treadmill and can't control its speed.
Copyright 2004 James McAlister
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